Cinnamon Girl
Page 6
Your uncle who never forgets you,
DJ Roberto
Breathe a little whimper,
read this letter
over and over again:
May 25, 01
Dear Canela,
I have an idea.
Why don’t you come back to New York,
all of you? We just got in from San Francisco.
At last. Tía said, ya vayanse, can you believe it?
She told us to get out. But I got her a visiting nurse.
Look, the Lower East Side is about sixteen hours from
Iowa, plus a skip and a mambo! Just a little apretao’ in the
Everything Room. Maybe it’s time we all got back together,
our tenement will be our islita. Please get back to me.
Mucho love con () () ()
Your uncle Beto, DJ
P.S. You’ll help build my radio station up on the roof?
RadioSabor FM, okay? And you can write poems there too.
Bring that old cereal box you’ve been keeping since
you were a little girl. Just you and nobody else.
Hurry, write, call. Chéverechévere!
My heart beats low-low and
an icy sweat covers me. Sniff, sniff,
Zako says if I take another hit
I’ll feel more energy. Zako.
Something in the pipe
makes my eyes stay open forever.
Nothing—my nose hurts. I fill my pockets
with voicedust as Zako talks-talks. Got to save
the voices. Got to carry them back
to Ground Zero. My manda. It is my manda.
Want to eat a whole
row of soda crackers and a little white pan
of cheese dip, root beer. Chew gum. Want to
but can’t. Just can’t.
My stomach feels tight
and burns too. Heh, almost like salsa.
Wipe my face.
Like I see little wings with
the sides of my open eyes. I snatch them,
dust, feathers, mosquitos, heh-heh, mosquitos,
white mosquitos, little armies that will lead me
out upstairs. Heh. My back hurts kinda. Don’t
know if it’s my back or my stomach or
my heart. So empty,
heh, the morning light spills on the stairs like milk.
Sneak out.
Crawl with Cicatríz. Wind
cradle me. Wind-wind
from all around the world.
Out here now
where everyone can hear, lissen—
I notice the stars
for the first time, chewing pieces of the sky.
Can you hear them, Cicatríz?
They are waiting for you.
Notice the little songs of people
moving quiet in the wee hours of the morning.
Hear that, Cicatríz? They are all saying
that you are the most beautiful girl in the world.
They are saying they love you and that they
will never forget you.
A woman prays, see how she looks away
and lowers her head inside a scarf and that man
asleep while he’s holding a lunch bag.
See that, Cicatríz? He has your favorite bacalaitos.
Just you and me now, Cicatríz.
Here, if I can’t have the crackers
you can have them, here
try a little cheese dip, wipe it off
your nose after you finish, okeh,
okeh, now, be careful, the mosquitos,
and the feet, see those feet, watch
them, they’re sneaky feet, don’t
follow them, follow me, Cicatríz, come
and remember, always, we can’t
lose those little gray baggies, okeh,
okeh, now, gonna put you back
into your little apartment, right
here in my backpack, here’s a little
cookie, the last one, wish I had some,
let’s go now, come, come
and shhh . . . shhhhh don’t you say a word
to anyone, until uncle DJ comes home,
ready, okeh, okeh, let’s go, nobody’s
gonna see me, they’re gonna think
I am some kinda Mexican gypsy,
Spanish, a Flamenco dancer, yeh-yeh,
let’s go and catch up with Rezzy.
Wait
until the sun comes up. Wait
by PS 1486. Pace back and forth,
look mean into the street where
a bicycle man floats by like an angel.
10/5/01 Friday, PS 1486, Loisaida, on the way to Mrs. Camacho’s class
hot pink note
Let’s follow Rezzy
to Mrs. Camacho’s class, heh.
Look at her walk fast-fast
up the stairs. Is she running away
from us, Cicatríz? Or maybe,
she thinks she sees me
in the crowd, huh? Maybe,
we should go home, I should
wash the dishes, bet you the sink
is so dirty, no one there, everyone
at the hospital. Dunno.
Uncle DJ
can you hear me? Why don’t you
say something? Why don’t you answer?
There’s too much dust to clean.
Uncle DJ?
Even here in the janitor room
by the brown mop and yellow
plastic bucket there is too much dust.
I am gonna pinch your nose, Cicatríz,
so you won’t smell the ammonia,
and plug your ears so you won’t
hear all the dustvoices.
The bell rings-rings
and Rezzy passes me.
Hey—
drops me a hot pink note.
Police come to class
looking for you.
Meet me tomorrow at five thirty.
Sister Lopez’s Tarot Card Shoppe.
Later.
—Rezzy
10/6/01 Saturday, nodding off on Avenue D, muggy afternoon
my razor
Come, Cicatríz,
let’s hang by our old place.
Get some fresh clothes,
some cookies. We’re not
going back until we save all
the voices, remember. We made
a manda. Shhhh, shhhh, up
the stairs, second floor, third,
okeh, okeh.
Sniff, sniff, smells like
pasteles, or maybe someone’s
frying pork chops next door, mmmmm.
Okeh, the door’s open, a little.
Must be Papi, he’s always forgetting,
huh, Cicatríz, are you listening to me?
Tiptoe,
tip-tip, tiptoe. Is that
Papi leaning over the sink
reading something by the light?
It’s probably a Wanted Picture.
You know, like on the milk carton,
the little kids. You know I am not
a little kid, Cicatríz, wonder what
he’s reading.
Better hide in the closet
by my sofa-room, where tía Gladys
keeps her work clothes. Let’s see.
Wait, hear that?
House made of sofrito
So many moons and dreams
Aguas Buenas, Cayey, Puerto Rico
Papi and me dance outside
How funny life seems.
July 13, 01
Papi’s reading one
of my poems.
What’s Papi reading now?
Under the Flamboyan
In my heart
There is a little girl
A flower from the start . . .
Come to my arms, Canela
Are you safe,
Where are you sleeping?
Wake up, wake up, nena,
I am so alone, weeping.
Papi, Papi, heh.
Is that your poem? I almost say
through the crack in the door.
Papi pops his arm
and looks at his watch.
I almost forgot, he whispers,
they’re taking Beto off the ventilator thing
to see if he can breathe on his own.
Uncle DJ?
Uncle DJ, wait. I am not ready.
I, uh, uh, I, uh, I still need to save the voices.
I want to come see you, but, I am not finished . . .
don’t know . . .
Papi dashes out without saying
another word.
What shall we do, Cicatríz?
I switch on the light in the tiny closet.
Check my miniature watch.
Rezzy’s waiting for me, but
I want to see uncle DJ too.
Grab the zebra boa from Tía’s clothes rack
and the blouse with circle mirrors.
In every mirror
there is a wavy pool
with two dark sad eyes
looking down.
Meet Rezzy at Sister Lopez’s shoppe.
No one there except
Sister Lopez who’s sitting down
petting her rough black cat, on
the phone talkin’ in a low voice, something
about Is he ok?
Wonder where Rezzy is?
Wonder what’s going on
at the hospital? Where will I stay tonight?
Zako’s still at the Palace or
is he with RGB or Marietta?
I don’t want to smoke that stuff, makes my head
get wired and then I laugh out loud-loud
and then I can’t close my eyes.
It’s laced with some good stuff, Zako says.
Gettin’ chopped keeps things smoooth.
Sniff, sniff.
Cicatríz pokes her nose through
some butter-colored candles.
Yolanda, did you save all the voices?
A husky voice crackles.
Where did you go lookin’, muchacha?
Down the long white stairs in the night
All the falling voices you will cure of fright
You cannot show your face
You cannot leave a trace
Do this with all your heart and all your might
And your uncle will rest in the highest place.
Sister Lopez walks up to me slow-slow,
she looks kinda smaller all of a sudden,
with her arms out as if about to ask for rain
from the rufeh, as if about to lift up
an invisible tray of flowers to someone
that just died, her virgensita almost hidden.
She hugs me
and presses her face against my shoulder.
Rezan is not coming, Sister Lopez says, touching my face.
She called, said they’re going back home to Kuwait.
Someone gassed their store!
Run-run, run,
then I think of nothing.
Drag
slow
to
Royal Robes
FDNY
Ashes and smoke.
A charred pile
of steel hangers and smoke-spotted walls.
More smoke and black soot figures.
Torn half faces, clouds and
a beehive of embers.
A couple of strangers take a picture.
Think of Iowa. Sky. Sky, can you hear me?
Can you see me? When will this end?
Rezzy glances at me from the crowd—
she’s still wearing
my black tights and denim jacket.
We are not terrorists, uncle Rummi
says, ducking the photographers, Now I go back
to Kuwait, no business, no life here no more,
Everything lost. All lost.
Rezzy stares hard,
takes off my jacket, drops it on the sidewalk,
I almost disappear,
like miles away and I touch her
through the small window in the taxi
and she touches me.
Says something with her face against
the glass, but uncle Rummi pulls her
away.
I stand
alone again.
She’s gone. Rezzy without light.
Sky, where are you?
Uncle DJ . . . can you hear me?
Will you leave me too?
Gone, all gone.
Kick-kick away
my old funky blue-black jacket.
Rezzy, Rezzy, I say.
Rez-zy—her name
gets stuck
in my throat.
A razor. But it’s
my razor.
10/7/01 Sunday, alone on the rufeh, Loisaida, 3 am
love congas
Take a shot
of Peppermint Schnapps,
tuck the bottle from Shorty’s bodega
in my backpack. Spit it back out.
Cicatríz, better not lick this bottle
bad for you, bad! Slouch down Avenue C
back to my old building, look up at the third floor.
Lights out. Cover my mouth and face with
Mamá’s Hindu shirt. Rest the bottle down
on the fire hydrant in front of the stoop.
Sit.
Climb the stairs.
First floor, second floor, go to the rufeh.
See the busted wires and the trash bags.
RadioSabor in a heap of beer bottles
and trash.
Sing a little tune by J.Lo.
Sit on a milk crate, sing a little tune.
Gaze at the washed flat hot sky,
crooked, shaky
and empty in my chest.
Rub my neck
feel a wart by my vein.
Pick a letter
in my backpack, from my cereal box.
Strike a match and read.
June 3, 01
My Canelita,
I called and called you last night but your mom said
you are not in the mood to talk to anyone. I am
so sorry about your friend, Sky.
Wish I could hug you mucho.
When my papa died, en paz descanse, I didn’t
know what hit me. I told myself, It’s like he just
isn’t here anymore. Didn’t feel a thing, I was sixteen,
three years older than you. The sheriff came to our
apartamento at midnight, handed Mamá a letter and said, I
am sorry. Didn’t even visit him in the hospital, I just didn’t,
didn’t want to see him without legs, the diabetes had
eaten him all up, when he passed I remembered his
words, La vida es un sueño y los sueños sueños son.
Can you read Spanish? Life is a dream and dreams are
merely dreams. And, Canelita, I was always a dreamer.
Loisaida is beautiful. It’s so good to be back home.
Hearing from you will make it perfecto. Please call
or write me, sooner.
Your tío Beto, DJ
P.S. Here’s a hug (). And three more ()()().
They look like congas,
Love Congas. ()()()()()
Crush
the letter into a spiked white carnation of nothing.
Pick the letter
I keep folded inside a little red silk pouch.
June 13, 01
Dear uncle Beto, DJ Beto
Dunno. Words happen
at strange times. This feels like a poem
but it is full of lágrimas, tears.
Sky said
the winter nights in Iowa
are the best in the world. Like electric
moondust from heaven.
We walked for about an hour
north from West Liberty
away from the tiny houses and trailers
and the one theater that wets the town with orange
haloes on the streets and buildings. It was raining
and everything was so bright and quiet, still
and moving at the same time, like a video
of torn clouds and blue stars, then I felt so alone
running away from home, wanted to go back but
Sky was laying on the highway looking up straight
into the sparkles floating over us saying, “See that star,
that’s mine, it’s the same shape as I am when I am
dancing,” and Cheyenne told her that he bet
she would chicken out before he would if
a car came down the road, cuz, he was laying
down too and I said, no seas gallina, Miguela,
that was Sky’s real name, don’t be a chicken part
I told her, then I did the same thing and we were
like three floating wet dolls on a river but it was
the asphalt on Highway 6 to Iowa City, a beer truck
peeled a sharp turn out of a warehouse and rumbled
toward us. Get up! I yelled but they were gigglin’
and holding hands, slurpin’ Peppermint Schnapps,
okeh, okeh, you win, Cheyenne said as he rolled
fast to the side of the road. Sky, come on, but
Sky was laughing and stumbling on her elbows,
tell me you love me, she said,
and—can’t
write anymore, uncle DJ. I can’t even feel
my hand write, or my heart beat.
Canelita
Scribble a poem with one eye open.
this doesn’t need a title
i want
to see
what is
on the other side of the d u s t
maybe
that’s
where
all the dustvoices live.
maybe that’s where uncle Beto
and Sky wait for me.
maybe
i
am the dust?
Dust?
Another word
for scattered dreams
in the streets.
Today & forever
Take another
swig and spit-spit it out again. Then I guzzle it
like cherry soda,
spill it over my chin,
down my pants and shoes.
Cooool.
10/8/01 Monday, on the rufeh, Loisaida, 11:30 pm
drippy pizza
Climb
down
drowsy
the escape ladder and hang above by the kitchen
window, where I used to live. Bet Mamá
kneels by her little city of red candles. The razor
in my throat cuts and burns at the same time.
Hold the steel bars tight so I won’t fall.
Tight-tight
so I won’t feel a thing.
Maybe if I stretch I can kick up